"Then there is The Denizen," said Meagle, "full of luxury apartments available at absurdly low rents and nobody will take them. It has taken toll of at least one life of every family that has lived there - however short the time - and concierge after concierge has died there. The last caretaker died just a few weeks ago."
I must have been sitting on a chair on the balcony for hours. The evening shadows were drawing on apace, so I hurried back into the living room, feeling it was weird to be there all alone with every one of the other 98 apartments in The Denizen unoccupied. I knew these were ghost homes that the owners had bought as investments and not to live in, but even so it seemed odd that besides me there was only the concierge in the building. The sun had sunk below the horizon by this time. With my own eyes I saw that one of the doors I had shut was standing wide open! I turned to the other two bedroom doors. They were closed as I had left them. It was the master bedroom door that had moved. For a second I stood appalled and frightened.
We have now arrived at March 24. It was a day of curious experiences for Meng: a windy, noisy day, which filled The Denizen and Fortune Street Park with a restless impression. As Meng stood by the fence and looked into the park, he felt as if an endless procession of unseen people were sweeping past him on the wind, borne effortlessly and aimlessly, vainly striving to stop themselves, to catch at something that might arrest their flight and bring them once again into contact with the living world of which they had formed a part.
Feel how the walls of investment flats thicken with sorrow as night after night the owners feel the dull sharp pain from a constantly shrinking soul and eventually become the sole ghosts of their ghost flat. Transported to these cells from all around the world!